Reasons to Believe
by hereswith
Summary: A companion piece to A Matter of Trust. Jack and Elizabeth, some years after the end of the movie. [Complete]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't own it. Everything you recognise belongs to Disney. No infringement  
is intended and I'm certainly not making any money from this story.  
**Summary**: A companion piece to "A Matter of Trust". Jack and Elizabeth, years after the  
end of the movie.  
**Author's note**: Will has passed away, some time ago, and Elizabeth is a widow. You should  
read "A Matter of Trust" first, or some things that are mentioned in this story won't make  
sense. There will be two, or possibly three, more chapters, I think. Also, most of this is dark,  
really, really dark.

**  
Reasons to Believe**  
**by Hereswith**

******  
****Chapter 1**

He didn't come. The appointed hour arrived, and passed, the day slowly lengthening into  
evening and then slipping, almost unnoticed, into a cloudless night.

But he did not come.

Elizabeth couldn't sleep. Panic settled like the weight of a stone in the centre of her heart.  
Not immortal, she thought, and no longer all that young. He had only stayed away once  
before; when the Royal Navy had scoured the seas around Jamaica, but that was long  
ago and neither Norrington, nor her father, had spoken of any similar venture these last  
few months.

She counted each breath, as she lay in her bed, clutching the black pearl in her hand.

When she found out the truth, it was purely by accident, and not by design. A fragment  
of conversation caught the whole of her attention. A single voice carried through the air,  
as if the market had not been filled with voices.

"Jack Sparrow."

Elizabeth flinched, a cold stab of fear running through her body. She stopped, not heeding  
any of the people around her and looked to the right, at the two marines standing at the  
corner of the street.

"About time that damned pirate had a stroke of bad luck," the younger man said, with  
considerable satisfaction.

"I heard the Spaniards brought him down," his companion replied. "Now, that's one  
sparrow, for sure, that won't fly again."

And they laughed.

She wanted to kill them. She wanted to wake up. Had not wanted anything this badly,  
since wanting Will to live. And all her wishes had availed her nothing, then. They availed  
her nothing, now.

Her eyes burned, but she didn't know how to weep. Strange, that she should have  
forgotten.

_Jack._

_-  
_

A letter and a parcel were delivered to her door, soon after, by a small and quiet boy,  
who scraped his feet and would not meet her gaze. She offered him a slight, tired smile  
and he ducked his head, the coin that she gave him quickly disappearing into the folds  
of his clothes.

After he had gone, Elizabeth went into the kitchen. She opened the letter first. It wasn't  
signed, but she could guess who had had it written. Joshamee Gibbs. Not Anamaria,  
she had her own ship, and sailed with fairer winds.

The letter was short and simple, it told her too much and yet, not nearly enough, but  
her imagination filled in the gaps, with such terrible ease, and she could see it in front  
of her, as clearly as if she was there.

The _Black Pearl_, damaged and listing to one side. The Spanish warship and its  
Commander, dark of hair and skin, like Jack. Jack, the scoundrel, who was shot.  
Jack, the scalawag, the blackguard, who fell into the water and was swallowed  
by dusk and the white-crested waves, before any of his crew were able to reach  
him. And the _Pearl_, out gunned, out manned and bereft, was forced to put hope,  
as well as the Spanish warship, to their rudder.

Elizabeth crumpled the letter up into a ball and tossed it onto the table. She closed  
her eyes, briefly, to steady herself, then set to removing the wrapping paper around  
the parcel. What emerged was an unexpected treasure. A tricorn hat; the brown  
leather faded, discoloured and cracked. Had it been anyone else's, she would have  
thrown it away and taken care not to touch it. Bloody pirate. He loved that hat.

Grief caught up with her, all at once. And it was not fit for a lady, that grief. Not  
fit for a Governor's daughter. She screamed, like a sailor's wife, into the face of  
the storm.

-

She dreamed of Jack, that night, though she remembered little of it, only the terrible  
sense of urgency and the blood. There had been so much blood. And she had been  
falling, or sinking, perhaps, she wasn't entirely sure.

Her right hand thumb strayed to her left palm, like it often did while she was thinking.  
She still bore the scar, a thin, white line that destroyed the lines a fortune-teller might  
have read. When she married Will, she had made her own fortune and she had  
sometimes pressed her palm against his, as if the wounds were open and they swore  
a binding oath. She had never done that with Jack, but she had seen his scar, and  
it was a match to theirs.

She was sitting on the bed, legs drawn up under her, tricorn hat upon her head. It  
tended to come down over her eyes, when she bent her neck, but she didn't take  
it off. Would not take it off.

The day Will had died, she had been there. She had held him, mourned him and, in  
the end, surrendered his body to the earth. This was different. Her hand stilled on  
the scar and her jaw set in firm resolve. Once, she had been a person who was  
willing to do whatever was necessary. She needed to be that Elizabeth again.

-

The _Aurora_ was a small and sturdy vessel, not meant for combat or speed, but rather  
suited to carry some merchant's goods from one island to another. Her Captain, John  
Sutton by name, was a jovial man, red-haired and red-bearded, who took after his  
ship, in stature and built.

She had been afraid he would know her for the Governor's daughter, in spite of the  
worn cloak, the plain dress and the coif, but he didn't question her. Nor did he behave  
as if he thought she was anything other than what she claimed to be: a townswoman,  
of no more than middling means.

"You're in luck, ma'am." He took out his pipe, filling it as he talked. "We're bound  
back to Tortuga on the morrow, now that our cargo's been loaded. You're welcome  
to a spare berth, as long as you can pay for the passage."

Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. "I have money enough, I hope."

The Captain lit the pipe, puffed on it a few times, then took a long draw. A stream  
of smoke escaped from between his lips and the heavy scent of tobacco spread  
through the air. "Must be important, ma'am. The reason you're going, that is."

She nodded, giving him that much at least. "I'd rather not speak of it, Captain Sutton."

"Not my business, eh?" he said, with a dry chuckle, but he shrugged, settling with  
that. "I expect you to be here bright and early, ma'am. We'll sail out of port at dawn,  
and no later."

"I understand." All tension left her in a rush, and her heart thudded. "Thank you,  
Captain."

-

"It's an excellent idea." Weatherby blew on the tea to cool it, and swallowed a  
mouthful. "And it's all decided, is it?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said. "Charlotte's only glad to have me stay with them for a week  
or so." She felt a twinge of guilt, as the words left her mouth, even though it wasn't  
a lie. Not quite. Charlotte would indeed have been glad, had she but known of it.

"How many children do they have, by now? Two?"

"Three," she corrected. "Two boys and a girl."

"Three?" He shook his head. "And to think it seems like yesterday that the two  
of you were playing in the garden, mere children yourselves." Weatherby heaved  
a small sigh, then added, almost as an afterthought, "You'll give her my regards,  
won't you?"

"Your best regards, father," Elizabeth reassured him. "You know that."

She lifted her cup to drink and, for a while, they both sat savouring their tea, in  
companionable silence. Elizabeth's gaze travelled to the window, drawn by the  
glimpse of the bay and the glittering waves. Something tugged at her, deep inside,  
and she knew what it was. Would have recognised that particular craving, awake  
or asleep. Her legs longed for the sea.

"Elizabeth?" She turned towards him and Weatherby cleared his throat, suddenly  
serious. "I spoke to James Norrington the other day. He told me that pirate—  
Jack Sparrow—has been killed."

Her hand tightened around the cup. "I heard rumours," she said, evenly, keeping  
her eyes fixed on the pattern of flowers on the surface of that thin, delicate  
porcelain. "So, it's true, then?"

"I believe there was a skirmish with some Spanish warship," Weatherby replied and  
she heard the chink of the spoon as he stirred it around. "Peculiar fellow. Had the  
most horrid breath, as I recall." He hesitated. "A pirate, and a good man, isn't that  
what William used to say?"

Elizabeth looked up, startled by the question. "It was. I'm surprised you remember."

"I'm not that old, I'll have you know," he admonished, but there was no edge to his  
voice. "I don't agree with the sentiment, still, the man did save your life, after all."

She swallowed sharply, so many things on the tip of her tongue. Words she could not  
say. "Yes." Elizabeth set the cup aside, stretching her cramped fingers, and she rose.  
"It's late. I really should be getting home."

And it might have been obvious she was running, as fast as she could, but she didn't  
care. Should she stay, she would end up sobbing her heart out in front of him and  
that would be worse.

"You must pack, of course." Weatherby regarded her, steadily, with the slightest hint  
of concern. "It will do you good, I think, the change of scenery, as well as Charlotte's  
company."

Elizabeth felt that twinge again, stronger than before and not all of it was guilt. She  
covered the distance between them and, without preamble, leaned down to kiss his  
cheek. "I love you, papa."

"Well, I've never—" Weatherby exclaimed, flustered, but he reached out and enfolded  
her hand in his. "Dear child."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I don't own it. Everything you recognise belongs to Disney. No infringement  
is intended and I'm certainly not making any money from this story.  
**Summary**: A companion piece to "A Matter of Trust". Jack and Elizabeth, years after the  
end of the movie.  
**Author's note**: Thanks to all you who have taken the time to review! It's very much  
appreciated, I assure you.

**  
Reasons to Believe**  
**by Hereswith**

******  
****Chapter 2**

They departed, fully as early as Captain Sutton had said they would. It was a beautiful  
morning, suffused with the glow of a gentle sun. By midday, it was scorching. Elizabeth  
soon lost sight of the houses and streets of Port Royal, but the coastline of Jamaica was  
visible for quite some time, as was the peaks of the Blue Mountains.

Captain Sutton had raised a brow, when he noticed how quickly she adjusted to the pitch  
and the roll of the ship. "You've got good sea legs, ma'am," he observed.

And she had smiled, demurely, in response, the way she never smiled, if she could help  
it. "It certainly seems so, Captain."

The _Aurora_, holds filled with cargo, was not nearly as fast as the ships, naval and pirate,  
that Elizabeth had sailed on before. She grew restless, as they picked their way through  
the Windward Passage, the long hours of inactivity giving her more than ample room to  
think. And though she tried, she could not keep the memories at bay.

"Excellent footwork, that, Mrs. Turner." Parry and thrust. A grin laced with sunlight and  
far too much rum. "But what did I tell you about the rules of engagement, eh?"

"Guidelines," she managed, through gritted teeth.

"Aye." He nodded, making a move that deprived her of sword, the tip of his blade  
suddenly so close to her throat that Will, a few feet away, made a sharp sound of protest.  
"Don't listen to the whelp, love. There's no point in fighting fair, if it gets you killed."  
Jack blinked at her, dark eyes gazing down the length of polished steel. "Savvy?"

She made a face. "Savvy."

"Splendid!" He withdrew the sword, then raised it. "Now, let's try again, shall we?"

Her sleeping quarter seemed, suddenly, more cramped than it had, a moment ago.  
Darkness pressed in on her on all sides and she fled, heading for the main deck. The  
breeze and the cool night air chased off the tears, if not her dismal mood, and Elizabeth  
leaned precariously over the starboard rail, all her weight on her toes, all her breath  
given to the wind.

She thought of Will, who had not died at sea or by the sword, but from an illness that  
nothing could vanquish. She could not think about Jack, who might, even now, be  
swaying in tune with the current, his braids trailing like tangled skeins of seaweed in  
the murky water.

It was dark when they arrived and Elizabeth could not hope to distinguish between  
the ships that lay anchored offshore. Could not tell, for certain, if the _Black Pearl_ was  
one of them. Worry flared up, bright as a beacon, but she quelled it, berating herself.  
Jack had always returned to this turtle-shaped isle and Gibbs, Captain Gibbs, would  
do no different. She could not, would not begin to doubt that, now.

Will had told her about Tortuga, waving his hands in the air in a perfect imitation of  
Captain Jack Sparrow. He had rolled his eyes, and spoken of the squalor and the  
sweet proliferous bouquet, that had nearly made him gag. And he had confessed,  
carefully gauging her reaction, that some of the women had propositioned him,  
bosoms heaving in the dim light of the tavern.

Elizabeth knew all his tales had been true the instant she stepped through the door of  
'The Faithful Bride'. It was the kind of place she had read about as a girl, a thrill of  
excitement running down her spine at every sordid description, though she was well  
aware she ought to have fainted at the mere mention of such things, as any proper  
young lady should.

She glanced about, nervously, searching for a familiar face and when she saw none,  
moved further into the room, so focused on her task that she didn't notice the man  
that came up behind her. Not until he placed his hands on her shoulders. Elizabeth  
gasped, caught off guard, and swirled around.

"Well, what've we here?" The stranger chuckled, deep in his throat, and his lip curled  
back in a gap-toothed grin. She could smell him, a mixture of stale sweat and liquor.  
"Yer a pretty little thin', ain't ye, poppet?"

He tried to pull her towards him, his fingers digging into her waist, but Elizabeth  
twisted free, dodging him when he lunged at her and he stumbled, almost tripping  
over. She backed away, not taking her eyes off of him. To her relief, he remained  
where he was, wobbling on his feet, too drunk to give chase. But he swore, harshly,  
making a gesture so lewd she winced at the sight of it.

Her heart pounding in her ears, Elizabeth slipped into the crowd, putting as much  
space between them as she could. She cursed him, under her breath. Wished a pox  
on him, too, for good measure, then set out to find the landlord.

Before long, she spotted him, an elderly, balding man, at the back of the tavern, and  
she hastened to approach. "Excuse me?"

He turned and looked her over, thinking her oddly attired, no doubt, considering  
the state of undress of most other women in the tavern. "What can I do for ye, miss?"

Elizabeth shifted, feeling self-conscious. "I'm searching for a man by the name of  
Joshamee Gibbs. Do you know him?"

"Joshamee Gibbs, eh?" His eyebrows lifted. "And what d'ye want with him, then?"

"I'm Elizabeth Gibbs," she answered, almost without thinking. "He's my uncle."

"Is he now? Can't say as I've ever heard him speak of any brothers or sisters."

"So you do know him?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I might."

She tensed, waiting for him to continue, but he didn't, and when it dawned on her  
why, she flushed, angry rather than embarrassed, and handed him a couple of coins.

"Aye," the landlord confirmed. "I know him. And I know where yer likely to find  
him." He fingered the coins, looking at her pointedly.

Elizabeth clenched her jaw, but she pushed another coin across the desk.

"Well," the landlord began, leaning forward, "I reckon he'll be in the pigpen, miss."  
And he smirked, as if he was hoping to shock her. "All snug and warm, like a babe  
in arms."

There was a strong, almost overpowering stench in the darkened alley and Elizabeth  
heard the sound of someone retching, not too far off from where she was. She  
swallowed, hard, pressing her lips together and lifted her skirts, in a vain attempt to  
keep them out of the filth.

A parrot sat perched on one of the rickety walls of the pigpen, keeping guard, like  
some faithful dog, over the man that lay curled up on the ground. It squawked,  
when it saw her.

"Not Cotton too?" She cocked her head, a cold, sick feeling in her stomach. "I'm sorry."

"Wind in the sails!" the parrot exclaimed, flapping its wings. "Wind in the sails!"

Gibbs rolled over, muttering something wholly unintelligible, his mouth partially covered  
by straw. Elizabeth prodded him, with the tip of her shoe, but he did not wake. He  
started to snore, instead. Her brows knit and she prodded him again, much harder,  
eyeing the bucket nearby.

"Eh?" He sat bolt upright, shrugging off sleep, and as the drink-induced fog started to  
clear, in some fashion, his jaw dropped an inch. "Mary, Mother of God! Miss Elizabeth?"

"Mr. Gibbs," she replied, quite calmly, as if meeting him, like this, was an everyday  
occurrence. "I need your help."

Grimly determined, Gibbs poured the bucket of water over himself, without her  
suggesting it. "Ye shouldn't be here!" he grumbled, smoothing his wet, grey-streaked  
hair. "Jack would—" He broke off, looking pained. "I'd not forgive it, if I let anythin'  
happen to ye."

"I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, Mr. Gibbs."

He snorted; managing to disagree and blow out the water that had gone in his nose,  
all in one fell swoop. "I'm still plannin' to bring ye back to Port Royal, Mrs. Turner!  
As soon as the _Pearl_ can set sail!"

"I rather thought you would, Mr. Gibbs," she said. "But I had hoped we might go  
somewhere else, first."

His expression grew suspicious. "And where'd that be, lass?"

Elizabeth met his gaze and she took the plunge, not as gracefully as Jack would have,  
but then, she wasn't that good a swimmer. "To where it happened. Where he died."

Gibbs scowled, fiercely, and seemed about protest, but he never got a chance  
to speak.

"Dead men! Dead men tell no tales!"

"Damn that bird!" Gibbs snapped, and he glared at the parrot. "Off with ye! Go  
pester some other poor unfortunate creature!"

The parrot bobbed its head up and down, up and down, but it chose not to answer.

"It likes you," Elizabeth ventured.

Gibbs sighed, rubbing a hand across the muscles in the back of his neck. "That's  
what I'm afraid of."

She hesitated, her eyes on the bird. "You lost Cotton, as well?"

"Aye. Cotton, Jack and three more besides." A few stray drops trickled down his  
cheeks and it must have been water, but it almost looked like tears. "Young Tom  
died yesterday."

"I'm sorry," she said, again, and she knew it wasn't enough, but she didn't think he  
would have approved of her trying to comfort him.

He nodded curtly, then frowned, as if realising that they were still standing in the  
pigpen. "This is no place to talk, Mrs. Turner. Will ye come to the _Pearl_ with me?"

Elizabeth smiled, a little, at that. "Yes, Mr. Gibbs."

She followed him, as he started to walk, going down the street in the direction of  
the docks. The parrot alighted on her shoulder, and it surprised her, but she could  
guess what had prompted it. Any port in a storm.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I don't own it. Everything you recognise belongs to Disney. No infringement  
is intended and I'm certainly not making any money from this story.  
**Summary**: A companion piece to "A Matter of Trust". Jack and Elizabeth, years after the  
end of the movie.  
**Author's note**: I'm sorry about the delay, real life intruded... Thank you, for all your kind  
words!

****

Reasons to Believe  
**by Hereswith**

******  
****Chapter 3**

Once, when she'd been Barbossa's most unwilling captive, the _Black Pearl_ itself had  
not mattered to her. Cannons could have splintered it, the sea could have swallowed it,  
and she would not have mourned for its loss. It had been a ship, nothing more. Granted,  
a legendary ship, haunted and cursed, with sails as black as the hearts of its crew. But  
it had not been Jack's ship.

Standing now, in the Captain's quarters, Jack was in all she could see, as if his spirit  
had somehow seeped into the woodwork. And she felt the lack of him more keenly,   
surrounded by his possessions, than she had in Port Royal, or aboard the _Aurora_.   
Without realising it, Elizabeth bit down on her lower lip. She flinched, but the pain was  
a momentary distraction, and as such she almost welcomed it.

"Anchors aweigh!" The parrot, not approving of her sudden motion, abandoned her,  
settling on the armrest of a chair. It started to preen itself with great vigour.

"Does the bird have a name, Mr. Gibbs? I don't think I've ever heard it."

"Damned if I know, lass. 'Tis always been 'Mr. Cotton's parrot', but that'll have to  
change, I suppose." Gibbs gulped hard. "I need somethin' to drink." He glanced at  
Elizabeth. "There should be wine, if ye'd care for that?" When she nodded, he walked  
over to the cupboard and rummaged through it, emerging with a bottle filled with amber  
liquid. "Rum?" he asked, slightly apologetic, as if he expected her to decline.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, but she was oddly cold, oddly hollow and she knew the  
rum might remedy that, vile though it was. "I think I'll have some, Mr. Gibbs, but just  
a drop, if you please."

He seemed surprised, but quickly regained his composure. "A drop ye shall have!"

She removed her cloak, as well as her coif, and sat down, avoiding the chair the parrot  
had claimed. A strand of hair had worked itself loose from her braid and she tucked  
it behind her ear, turning her attention to the chart that was spread out on the tabletop.  
She pulled it towards her, further into the circle of light that the lantern cast.

"Here you are, Mrs. Turner."

"Thank you." Elizabeth took the glass Gibbs offered her. It was engraved and, in all  
likelihood, part of the booty plundered from some merchant ship. Her lip stung, when  
she drank, and the rum burned, trailing a fiery path down her throat, but it warmed  
her, from the inside out.

Gibbs went round the table, fetched a mug from the cupboard and then took a seat  
opposite her. He poured liquor into the mug and downed a sizeable amount of it. The  
parrot, suddenly alert, marched to the end of the armrest and clicked its beak, several  
times. With a long-suffering sigh, Gibbs held out his mug and the bird craned its neck  
to get a taste.

"Shiver me timbers!"

Elizabeth coughed, hiding a smile. "Mr. Gibbs?"

"Aye?"

She indicated the chart. "Could you show me where it was?"

Gibbs withdrew the mug, to the parrot's dismay, and leaned across the table, taking  
a look. "'Twas Jack, who plotted the course, but—about there, I'd say." He pointed  
at a spot some distance from Tortuga. "They chased us a good while, the devils," he  
continued, as harshly as if the memory haunted him. "If not for the dark, they'd sent  
us all to Davy Jones' Locker. Even that blasted bird."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed in concentration. She put her glass down and tapped  
her finger next to the faint markings to the side of where he had pointed. "Islands,   
Mr. Gibbs?"

"There are no larger islands in those parts," Gibbs replied. He mulled it over, lips  
pursed. "Jack mentioned some specks of land, as I recall. He'd nearly run aground  
on them in a storm, years past. It might be those."

"Specks of land?" she repeated, her mind in a whirl, her heart in her mouth. "Like the  
speck of land Barbossa marooned us on?" A month, she thought. They could have  
survived a month, or more, on that godforsaken isle.

His eyes narrowed. "Could be naught but rocks, lass. I've not set foot on them and  
Jack never said as much."

Elizabeth swallowed, finding it inordinately difficult to speak, quite as if she'd had a  
whole glass of rum. "What if—"

"Now, whatever yer thinkin', ye'd best forget it," Gibbs interrupted. "Seein' as how  
high the waves were, and with him bein' shot—" He paused and lifted the mug, taking  
another swig. "It'd be a miracle, no less."

"He could have been washed ashore, could he not?" she questioned, grasping at  
straws, though they crumbled and cut her when she touched them.

"For all I could tell, he might've been dead when he hit the water." Gibbs shook his  
head. "I know ye cared for him, lass, but 'tis not possible."

Elizabeth got up hastily. She wanted to run out and make ready the sails, but, of course,  
she could not. And she didn't know how. "Not probable," she countered, refusing to  
yield, "and you cared for him too, Mr. Gibbs. Have you not considered it? Not for  
one single moment?"

He blinked, and his gaze slid away. "'Tis a fool's errand," he insisted, "and a fool's  
hope."

"Perhaps, but I have to see it for myself. I have to be certain." He hadn't answered  
her question. She drew a ragged breath, putting all her faith in that. "If you can tell me  
that you don't, honestly tell me that you don't, you can take me home, Mr. Gibbs.  
And I promise I won't make a fuss."

"Mother's love!" Gibbs exclaimed. He pushed a hand through his hair and that hand  
shook, very slightly. "Ye cannot believe he's alive!"

"No," Elizabeth admitted, "but neither can I believe he's dead. He's Captain Jack  
Sparrow." Her voice broke upon the last word and she balled her fists, stifling the  
sob that would have escaped.

Gibbs fell silent and he stayed silent, for the longest time, the crease between his brows  
growing deep. "Aye," he finally said, "he is, at that." He squared his shoulders, as if  
coming to some sort of decision. "Less than a week's worth of voyage, if we catch  
the right wind."

Elizabeth felt faint. She sank into the chair again, her legs too weak and too numb to  
hold her up.

"Daft," Gibbs accused, reading the expression on her face, but there was a fierce glint  
in his eyes.

And she grinned, remembering. "Daft like Jack."

-

Gibbs called together the rest of the crew and Elizabeth dreaded that meeting, her  
stomach churned with anxiety, because she knew Gibbs would do nothing, if the others  
voted against it, regardless of what he had said. And that would leave her adrift.

But though some of men were reluctant at first, they all agreed, in the end, and most  
of them seemed strangely eager to take off, almost as if they, like her, longed for that  
final confirmation. The final nail, with which to seal the coffin shut.

The _Black Pearl_ left Tortuga, carried along by a strong, steady breeze. Elizabeth   
spent much of the first day up on deck, the white sails billowing above her. She  
counted the exact number of steps required to get from starboard to larboard rail  
and she watched the crew, as they busied themselves with all the numerous chores  
that needed to be done. Her patience wore thin. It frayed and unravelled. Before   
the afternoon had waned, she went to find Gibbs, cornering him at the wheel.   
"Give me something to do, Mr. Gibbs, or I shall go mad."

"I don't doubt it," he replied, in a tone that betrayed her pacing had grated on his  
nerves as much as it had on hers. He eyed her, appraisingly, and she clasped her  
hands behind her back, raising her chin. She didn't know what he saw, the Governor's  
daughter, or the blacksmith's widow, but he nodded. "Ye could ask Cook if he  
needs help. And Marty's below deck, mendin' the sails."

Come nightfall, she was weary and her body was aching. She had always thought   
she knew about life on a ship, but all that she had read, all the tales she had devoured  
could only serve to keep her head above the water and, even that, just barely.   
Elizabeth fell asleep, almost before she lay down. She didn't dream. And that  
was a blessing.

-

She stood at the bow of the ship, like she had as a young girl, waiting for her life to  
begin. "Yo ho," she whispered, eyes on the deep blue, the unbroken surface. "Yo ho,  
a pirate's life for me."

"Black sheep," the parrot said, taking the cue. It was sitting on the rail, its brightly  
coloured feathers ruffled by the wind. "Devils and black sheep and really bad eggs!"

"Yes," she answered. "You're quite right. Really bad eggs."

"Mrs. Turner?" Gibbs came up to join her and the parrot sidled towards him, butting  
its head against his hand. He absently began to pet it.

"You know, Mr. Gibbs," Elizabeth mused, "I've yet to hear you say it's bad luck,  
having a woman aboard."

He grimaced and scratched his whiskered cheek. "We've had no luck for weeks,  
lass. The way I figure it, yer bein' here's not likely to make it worse."

Her lips quirked, minutely, but they quirked.

"Land dead ahead, Captain!"

The lookout's cry rang out from above them and Elizabeth startled, exchanging   
a single glance with Gibbs. "Do you think—" she began, but she could not continue.

Gibbs shrugged, a muscle working in his jaw. "We'll know, soon enough."

Elizabeth squinted against the glare of the sun, straining to see something on the  
horizon. It seemed to take forever, before she did.

There were three islands, strung out like pearls on a lady's necklace, or beads in  
a pirate's hair. The largest of them was smaller than Elizabeth had prayed it would  
be, but it wasn't bare rock, at least, it had trees and she noticed a stretch of golden  
sand. Viewed from the deck of the _Pearl_, it was beautiful. But she was well aware  
of how treacherous such beauty might be, if food and water was scarce and every  
road led to this: a pistol, a bullet and a cleaner death.

As they drew nearer their goal, Gibbs left to take the helm, parrot in tow, but a few  
of the other crewmembers approached.

"Coconut palms," Marty observed, taking stock of the vegetation.

"I'll not believe it, till we find 'im," the sandy-haired youth next to Marty replied.  
Jamie, his name was, and he was about the age Elizabeth had been, at the time   
of her grand adventure. "An' prob'ly not even then."

Fool's hope, she thought, gripping the rail so hard her knuckles whitened. False  
hope, perhaps. But it was better than no hope at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I don't own it. Everything you recognise belongs to Disney. No infringement  
is intended and I'm certainly not making any money from this story.  
**Summary**: A companion piece to "A Matter of Trust". Jack and Elizabeth, years after the  
end of the movie.  
**Author's note**: Real life, again grumble... I'm sorry to have left you all on the edge of  
that cliff for so long, but here is, at last, the final chapter. Thanks to everyone who has  
stayed with this story, as dark and angsty as it has been! Your reviews have meant a lot!  
And Shad, I hope you'll think it was worth making that exception...

****

**  
Reasons to Believe**  
**by Hereswith**

******  
****Chapter 4**

Elizabeth fidgeted; she could not stay still. At first, the parrot attempted to follow her  
with its beady gaze, but it quickly gave up that notion and spread out its wings, instead,  
as if preparing to take flight.

"You do realise you could go there, don't you?" Elizabeth asked. "Just to scout around,  
before the rest of us arrive."

The bird ignored her and folded its wings back again.

Elizabeth huffed, shaking her head. She had never been much good at waiting and had  
she been on dry land, she would have started to run, a long time ago. But even though  
Gibbs had taken the _Black Pearl_ as close as he could, without risking damage to the  
hull, there was yet a wide expanse of water between the island and the ship and they  
would have to use the dinghy to traverse it.

"Jamie!" Gibbs barked. "Yer comin' with me!"

"Aye, Capt'n!"

Gibbs turned to Elizabeth, but he wouldn't look her straight in the eye and she froze  
in mid-step. "Is something wrong, Mr. Gibbs?"

"It might be better if ye remained here, Mrs. Turner," he said carefully. "Just to be safe."

"Safe?" she repeated, nonplussed. "Why?"

"Chances are we'll find a corpse, if anythin'," he replied, with some reluctance, and  
it was obvious he disliked talking about it. "I've witnessed that before, lass. 'Tis not  
a pretty sight."

Elizabeth bristled, but she held her tongue. "I saw Barbossa and his crew at their  
worst, Mr. Gibbs. I don't need you to protect me from this." She gestured impatiently.  
"I'll swim ashore if I must."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but far too stiffly for it to be any kind of smile.  
"Those skirts'd drag ye down."

"Hang the skirts and hang propriety too, if it comes to that," she snapped. "I'll not  
let you leave me behind."

Gibbs stared at her, disgruntled, then threw his hands up, as much in defeat as in  
exasperation. "Fine," he said, irritably, "'tis settled, then. Just remember I warned ye."

"I won't forget, Mr. Gibbs."

And she vowed it was a promise she would keep.

-

The island loomed up in front of them, sunlight throwing everything into such sharp  
relief that it seemed unreal. Almost like a dream. It was Jamie who manned the oars  
and the dinghy cut through the waves like an arrow set loose from the bowstring,  
swift and sure. Jamie's face was strained with the effort and Elizabeth couldn't tell  
what he was thinking, but Gibbs looked like a man on the gallows, in that heartbeat  
before the hangman pulls the lever. She knew he expected the worst.

They landed, without any mishap, on the beach she had seen from the _Pearl_, and  
while Jamie and Gibbs secured the dinghy, Elizabeth went exploring along the edge  
of the water.

The beach was quite small, both jungle and ocean encroached upon it, and she  
came across twisted pieces of driftwood that had been cast up by the surf, but the  
only palpable sign of life was the set of tracks that some tiny sea-living creature  
must have made. There were no footprints, except her own. It reminded her, forcibly,  
of that other isle, the isle she had walked around, years past, fuming with anger  
and bitter despair. Hoping to escape from the same man she now hoped to find.

She kicked at the tracks, eyes prickling. Bloody pirate.

"Mrs. Turner!"

Elizabeth twisted on her heel and hurried to join the others. Gibbs took the lead,  
the parrot riding on his shoulder, and the four of them headed off, following the  
eastern shoreline, searching as they went.

When they got in among the trees, the palm fronds cast a dappled shade, providing  
some relief from the blistering heat, and they eased into a brisk pace, all too  
preoccupied with their own thoughts and concerns to talk. Even the parrot quieted.

After a while, the ground rose and, to their right, it fell away to low, unstable  
cliffs, which forced them to push further inland, braving a host of buzzing insects.  
The undergrowth was denser, there, and the roots and vines conspired to hinder  
their passage. At length, though, they came to a steep slope and Elizabeth, first  
glimpsing the beach that lay beyond, felt all fluttery inside, struck by the fear that  
they had come back to where they started. But it was longer, this beach, and  
not as narrow, and there were smooth, flat rocks interspersed with the sand.

She slumped down at the bottom of the slope, trying to catch her breath. Gibbs  
paused, as well, but Jamie, who didn't even have the grace to look suitably tired,  
continued onwards for a bit.

"Lass?"

Gibbs handed her his flask and knowing it was, for once, filled with water, not  
rum, she swallowed some of the contents, before returning it to its rightful owner,  
murmuring a word of thanks. The parrot cawed, unexpectedly, taking to the air,  
and it circled above them, a blue and yellow dot against the azure sky.

"Mr. Gibbs!"

Elizabeth jerked, as if she'd been slapped, and with full force, no less, and she  
got to her feet. She and Gibbs met Jamie halfway, the young man all wide-eyed  
and rattled.

"I saw—" he panted, sneaking a nervous glance at Elizabeth, "There's—somethin'  
over there. By the trees."

Gibbs swore roundly. "Lass, let me—"

She didn't listen. She ran. Stumbled and scrambled and slipped, but she did not  
stop, or stop to think. Shortly, she made out the prone, sprawled figure beneath  
one of the coconut palms, at the far end of the beach, and she willed her legs  
to push faster, though her muscles screamed in protest.

"Miss Elizabeth!" Gibbs called out, forgetting himself.

But she was already there, she skidded to a halt and fell, with a painful thud, to  
her knees.

He lay on his back, arm flung out, head rolled to the side. Not broken or ravaged  
by weather and wind, but peaceful, as if death had claimed him while he slept.  
Her heart plummeted.

_Jack_.

And his chest moved.

An odd sort of strangled sound escaped her. She dared not touch him, dared not  
even blink, lest he vanish. "Jack?"

Lashes flickered, then parted, and his gaze swept over her, unfocussed and jarringly  
naked, deprived of all traces of kohl.

"Go away," he said, and closed his eyes again.

She gaped, as shocked as a fish out of water. "I'm not going anywhere, Jack  
Sparrow! So you might as well look at me!"

He opened one eye, ever so slowly. "Not a dream, eh? Must be dead, then, there's  
nothing else to it."

"You—" She choked up, couldn't speak. Could not even breathe.

Jack frowned, suddenly, opening the other eye. "Gibbs?"

"Aye," the older man answered. "Aye." And this time, the stray drops were tears,  
Elizabeth was certain of it. "We thought ye were lost."

"Am I not?" Jack queried, and his hand flapped, much like the wing of a wounded  
bird.

"No, lad. We've found ye."

Jack pondered that piece of news, for a moment. "Well, then, what took you so  
long?" His voice lowered a notch and his face shadowed. "There's no rum, you  
know. Not a single cache."

He struggled to rise and Elizabeth reached out to help him, taking care not to graze  
against the makeshift bandage on his right shoulder. His skin was warm, beneath  
her fingers, and he was thin enough that she could feel every bone. Every knob  
of spine. And not even the beard, fuller than he had ever worn it, could hide his  
sunken cheeks.

Less than a month, she thought, but still weeks without end. Perfectly sober and  
with no hope of rescue. No rumrunners' ship, on which to barter his passage.  
"The _Black Pearl_'s here, Jack," she said, striving to make those shadows  
disappear. "We're taking you home."

-

She could not, afterwards, remember exactly how they got to the _Pearl_. It was  
all a blur of insects and jungle and sand, except for this: Jamie swept Jack into his  
arms and carried him, he would not let him walk.

There was a complete uproar, among the crew and, to a man, they hovered  
around them, like worried parents, crowding the deck and then, later, the cabin,  
until Gibbs grew tired of their chattering.

"Enough!" he commanded. "Out, ye scurvy dogs!"

The men left, grudgingly, and a measure of calm settled over the cabin. Gibbs  
examined Jack's shoulder, removing the torn strips of shirt that served as a  
bandage. The bullet had gone right through, and though the wound was far  
from healed, it was mending. There was no black discoloration.

"We'll take ye to a doctor, at the next port," Gibbs stated. "Blast it, Jack, Lady  
Luck's favoured ye, to be sure!"

Jack muttered something that might have been assent, or might simply have been  
a curse, and grimaced, jaw clenched, as the wound was cleaned.

When Gibbs was done, he applied a fresh dressing, then pulled himself upright,  
looking at Elizabeth. "I'll get Cook to prepare some broth. Ye'll stay with him?"

"I'll stay," she confirmed, dragging a chair nearer the bed.

His craggy countenance was split by a grin. "Fool's hope, indeed," he said,  
wryly. "'Tis fortunate we both were such fools, lass."

And Elizabeth nodded, as giddy and drunk on emotion as she had, once, been  
on rum. "Yes, Mr. Gibbs, it was."

-

Gibbs closed the door behind him and Elizabeth shifted in her seat, trying to find  
a comfortable position. Jack's eyelids had already begun to droop and it did not  
take long before he drowsed off, snoring gently.

She watched over him, in that quiet room, and the tears came, unbidden, in a torrent  
that proved impossible, now, to keep back. She cried so hard her body shook  
and she gasped for air, clutching a hand to her mouth in a desperate attempt to  
muffle the noise.

But he noticed, of course he noticed.

"Elizabeth?"

She sniffed, hastily wiping at her eyes and nose. "I'm quite all right—it's just—"  
And the wracking sob that followed disproved what she had said.

Jack sighed, a soft puff of breath. "You'll have to move closer, love. I'm  
somewhat— indisposed—as it were."

It drew a shaky, brittle laugh from her and she went to sit on the bed. "You  
should rest. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"Can't rightly disturb a man, if he's not wanting to be undisturbed," he reasoned,  
and his gaze was lucid, if tinged with pain. "Tell me, Mrs. Turner, Gibbs didn't fetch  
you, now, did he?"

"No," Elizabeth confessed, with yet another, rather unladylike sniff. "I went to  
Tortuga." His brows shot up and she flushed. "I wanted—" She trailed off, then  
started anew, choosing her words with care. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"And that would be a bad thing, would it, love?" he asked, and his voice was light,  
but his eyes were not.

"Bloody pirate," she said, past the lump in her throat. "You know it would be. Besides,  
you've a pearl to win back."

"Ah, yes." The ghost of a smile played on his lips. "Fair and square. Lizze, me girl."

When he lifted his hand, she took it, pressing palm against palm. Scar against scar.

She held on tight. She did not let go.


End file.
